Said and Done
by pingthing
Summary: They'd done the best they could with what they had. It was what the Winchester had done all their lives. Postfinale.


Author: pingthing is a collaboration between Faye Dartmouth and geminigrl11

Summary: They'd done the best they could with what they had. It was what the Winchester had done all their lives.

Spoilers: Devil's Trap

A/N: Devil's Trap left us utterly UNHINGED and then you couple that with anticipation of news on renewal for season two and teh DVD release and you get two pretty neurotic fangirls. Send the 12-step program to wean us off our addiction to this fandom! Read at your own risk. Maypoles are optional (but definitely encouraged).

Disclaimer: It's not ours. We just play with them. A lot.

**Said and Done**

It couldn't get any worse.

He could still taste the blood in the back of this throat. He could feel it caked on his chin. Now it slicked the side of his head, dribbled down his cheek. Everything hurt; everything ached in a dull, pervasive, insistent pain.

It was hard to see and he had to blink several times before he figured out where he was. _The Impala...or what was left of it_.

His mind reeled. In the blackness he could make out the seat in front of him, the shattered windshield.

If he was in the backseat, then...

He strained to look forward, and his stomach dropped. Sammy. His father.

He couldn't see much and he didn't hear anything, just the dying sounds of the Impala's engine settling into the night.

_No...they had to be okay...they had to be...after everything..._

His mind flashed again. The cabin. The demon. The way it had twisted his father's voice, the way he was pinned against the wall, the way he had begged for his own life, begged for his father's, just begged that his family would not be fractured more than it already was.

He wasn't sure what God or power had heard his pleas, but Sam didn't pull the trigger and they had been escaping. Dean had dared to hope.

It had been hazy, but Dean had known that nothing could be worse than what they had just lived through.

But then a pair of headlights had blinded him and he heard the crunching metal, saw Sam's head snap against the dashboard, and as darkness claimed him, he wondered if he might be wrong.

_Focus, Dean. Now is not the time to lose it._

He could barely make out his father's form, just saw his profile, shadowed both with darkness of the night and the too-darkness of blood. "Dad?" And if he thought he'd hurt before, pushing just that single word past his lips made him clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

John didn't move. Dean thought he could see him breathing, but it could have just been wishful thinking and he felt the tears that had been too close all night spring to life again.

He turned his head to the side, not seeing Sam anywhere. For a horrifying moment, he pictured Sam's body thrown from the car, broken beyond repair. He stifled a sob as the front seat came into better focus and he could just make out the back of Sam's head, shaggy hair nearly blending with the black upholstery.

"Sammy?" This time, he barely managed a whisper.

There was no response.

His strength had left him ever since the demon first threw him against the wall, but he strove to regain it. He leaned, inching painfully forward until he could rest his head near Sam's. His eyes closed involuntarily and he drew a few shaky breaths before leaning further, trying to position himself so he could see Sam's face.

He braced a hand against the leather and brought his head up.

Sam's face was covered in blood. It ran from his hairline over his cheek to his neck and from his nose to his chin. It glistened in the moonlight, still wet, still fresh, still dripping.

"Sammy, please . . ." Dean's broken plea was loud against the stillness inside the crushed car. But

Sam didn't stir.

Dean felt his stomach churning and barely had time to move away before his stomach expelled its meager contents. He tasted more blood in his bile and the action left him gasping, throbbing, spent.

He didn't know how much time passed, how many minutes lapsed before he was able to think clearly again. With care, he pushed himself up again, fighting another wave of nausea, as he turned his attention back to his father and brother.

His focus was singular, transfixed with the one question that everything hinged on: _were they alive?_

Dean's hand shook nearly uncontrollably as he reached for Sam's throat. His fingers made contact with blood and he felt himself starting to retch again, but he controlled it. Willing his heart to quiet and his body to still, he pressed firmly on Sam's throat, looking for a response.

Stillness.

Dean's heart skipped a beat. _No. _

He couldn't lose them. Not now. Not after finally getting them all back together, not after giving up everything they'd ever worked for just to keep them all alive and together.

Eschewing his pain, he moved up closer to Sam, repositioning his hand for a more accurate result. _Come on, Sammy_.

There it was. A weak beat thrumming rapidly beneath his fingers.

Using the seat to steady himself, Dean made his way to his father, reaching his trembling hand to his father's neck, trying not to notice how Sam's blood smeared from his hand to his father's neck.

His father's pulse was easier to find, and steadier to feel.

The physical contact made John stir, a deep moan escaping his lips.

"Dean?"

"I'm here, Dad." The words cost him, and he found himself gasping for breath.

"Sammy?"

There was no answer, and he could feel his father trying to move, trying to find a position that would let him see his sons.

"He's . . . alive, Dad," he said breathlessly. "You okay?"

John groaned and Dean could still feel him pushing against the seat.

"We've got to get out of here."

Dean couldn't have agreed more. They needed to get out, and they needed help. But Dean barely had the strength to keep himself upright, and unless John was in better shape than he looked to be, he wasn't going to have an easy time of it, either. And Sam . . .

"Sammy?" John's voice was sharper this time, only a pale shadow of his normal timbre, but still a tone that commanded obedience.

Sam didn't flinch, but Dean did. His head sank weakly against the seat again as he heard the tears in his father's next words.

"Dean, I think . . . we're in trouble."

Dean wanted to sit back up, to help his father, to help his brother, to make this better, to make _them_ better, but he couldn't. A cough tickled the back of his throat and ripped through him, shaking every fiber of his body. The world turned white and he felt himself fade away.

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This wasn't how he had envisioned the end.

Dean wasn't supposed to be hurt. Dean was always the strong one, the son who never gave up until John gave him permission to.

But Dean's cough had dissipated into silence, and John knew without looking that pain and injury had overtaken his eldest son again.

This was his fault.

He could still see the look of terror in Dean's eyes as turned the gun on him, as he begged him to fight the demon.

_Don't you let it kill me, Dad. _

Seeing Dean reduced to that, hearing the terrified desperation in his son's voice--hearing Dean _afraid_--that alone had been enough to kick the demon out of control, if only for a moment.

Because he had known a moment would be all it took. Dean might not have been in any position to fight back, but Sam was. And Sam had done exactly what John had trained him to do--picked up the gun and made the quick decision.

None of them could have known that a bullet to the leg would only expel the demon, not kill it.

Now they were another bullet down and still a shot away from killing the thing that started this.

John still had the demon though, still had this last, fleeting chance. One shot, one fatal shot, and they could end it all.

He saw Sam start to comply, but then saw the doubt flicker in Sam's eyes, saw his face tremble, heard Dean telling with Sam not to. Sam may have been able to disobey his orders--he had lots of practice that--but he couldn't ignore Dean's pleas.

The demon had left him with vicious force and he had been sure it couldn't get any worse, that they had come so close only to let it get away. He had been a bullet away and then it had slipped through his fingers. The thought tortured him.

But now everything was dark and his body felt numb. Dean had stopped talking and he hadn't heard Sam say anything at all.

Craning his head as best he could, John took in the sight of his sons, bloodied and bruised, a sight that was becoming all too familiar. He had never intended them to be the sacrifices to end this fight. He had never wanted them to be casualties of his war. After all, what good was victory if there was no one left to enjoy it?

He had been prepared to not make it out alive--him and him alone. It couldn't take his sons, and especially when he hadn't _won _yet.

His right arm couldn't move but he managed to lift his left. With slow and jerky movements, he reached into his pocket. After a minute of persistent exploration, he pulled out his phone. The screen flashed to life and John willed his heavy fingers to dial.

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John wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard the wail of sirens. His vision was cloudy and he was cold. He knew the boys must be too, and it was slowly breaking him, knowing that his sons were in desperate need of help he couldn't provide.

There was a din of voices, and the sound of metal on metal as the car was slowly sliced open. Hands pulled at him, blurred faces peered into his own asking questions, but he only had room for one thought.

"My sons. Please, help my sons."

The voices ignored him and he felt a collar being placed around his neck, a blood pressure cuff around his arm and he was moving.

They were taking him away from his boys.

"No!" Ignoring the lines of pain that raced over his neck, his back and chest, his head, he lifted himself up, trying to pull himself away. He had to get back to them. "Sam! Dean!"

Hands pulled at him again and this time he could make out words. "Doing everything they can . . . have to relax . . . let them work . . ."

He groaned in frustration, unable to get away. "Please, I just . . . need to know they're all right."

He pressed a hand to his eyes, feeling the burn of tears. _Mary, they'll be fine. I promise you. They'll be . . ._

He saw a blur of people moving toward him and suddenly there was Sam, on a stretcher. His young face was coated with blood and he was pale, his skin a ghostly white beneath the strobe of the ambulance light.

"Sammy." He reached out and grabbed his son's hand. It was limp and cold and John's tears were falling now unchecked.

" . . .have to take him . . ." the voices said, and Sam was pulled from his grasp. He heard doors slamming, heard the siren rev up again and knew Sam was being taken from him.

Dean was next. Dean face was just as pale as Sam's, his whole body covered with blood, but he managed to open his eyes briefly when John took his hand. And then Dean was taken from him too.

John leaned back against the gurney and closed his eyes. _I promise, Mary. I promise. _He let the pain and cold he had been battling draw him back into unconsciousness.

Briefly, he wondered when he would stop making promises he could never keep.

And then, he stopped wondering at all.

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Dean couldn't quite remember how he ended up in the hospital. All he could remember at first was pain, intense, overwhelming pain. And fear unlike anything he had ever known before.

It didn't hurt as much anymore, though he knew it must be bad. There were tubes and wires stringing out from his body, from places he didn't even want to think about, and he was grateful for the drugs he was sure were pumping through his system. He had to stare at the ceiling for a few minutes before someone found that he was awake, and it took another five minutes before someone would tell him anything of value at all.

The doctor was tall woman with a lean, muscular physique. She didn't smile at Dean and her hair was pulled back into a bun.

"You were suffering from massive internal bleeding," she explained. "You also have from a concussion and a broken leg. The concussion is moderate and healing. We've casted your leg. If all goes well, you should be up and walking around in about six weeks. Your surgery was difficult, but it's been three days post op, and your recovery is looking good."

_Three days._

He couldn't remember where the time had gone. But he knew that someone should be here, watching him, that Sam or Dad should have been there the minute he woke up.

And then he remembered the accident.

"My dad. My brother. Are they okay?"

"Your brother sustained a serious head injury. He has three broken ribs, one of which punctured his lung. His left arm and leg are both broken, his leg in two spots. We've pinned it, and he should regain full mobility with some physical therapy. We treated his lung and he's off the ventilator. However, he has slipped into a coma."

Dean felt his vision start to constrict. _Ventilator . . . coma . . ._

Seeing his reaction, she was quick to reassure him. "It's not as bad as it sounds. He has good brain functions and there haven't been any complications. It's a light coma. We're very hopefully that he'll wake up in the next few days."

The words weren't as comforting as she probably intended. But he still had to know—she hadn't yet mentioned John.

"And my dad?"

Her hesitation was all that it took to send his world crashing.

Her words blurred together as Dean felt himself spinning in a swirl of emotions. _Sorry to tell you . . . nothing could be done . . . send someone to talk to you . . ._ Dean just laughed at the last part. Someone to talk to him. As if that would help. The doctor was still talking but he closed his eyes, pretending to sleep until the pretending became real.

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He didn't know how much time passed before he awakened again. In his mind, it had been only seconds since he'd learned that his father had died.

_And then there were two._

He couldn't grieve, not yet. There were too many thoughts racing through his head, too many things that he needed to sort out before he could give in to the horror of knowing that his father was gone for good this time.

Most importantly, he needed to see Sam. Now. This minute.

He sat up, ignoring the nausea and dizziness and heavy pulse of pain thrumming through his body. Alarms started beeping as he pulled some of the tubes and wires from his arm, from his hands. Almost instantly, a throng of people surrounded him, holding him down, shouting commands.

The doctor from earlier leaned over him, concern marring her features. He grabbed her with both hands, pulling her face next to his. "I need to see my brother. You take me to him."

Other hands latched on to him, trying to pry his hands away, but he wouldn't let go, wouldn't break eye contact. "Please. I need my brother."

Somehow, he must have gotten through. She extracted a promise from him that he would leave the IV and monitors alone, that he would lie back and be quiet and that they would bring Sam to him.

He watched the door, every sense focused on Sam. An eternity seemed to pass before they wheeled him in, his body, like Dean's, attached to various and sundry machines and tubes.

Sam was still against the pillow. So still. There were bandages on his face and his leg and arm were propped up.

They turned Sam's bed so it was next to Dean's and Dean leaned across the small space between them to take Sam's hand in his. He closed his eyes again, letting the faint rhythm of his brother's pulse against his wrist lull him back to sleep.

He was almost surprised when Sam was still there the next time he woke up.

Apparently the doctor didn't want a repeat of his not-so-stealthy escape attempt.

Someone had placed his hand back on his own bed. Sam looked no different on the far bed. He was still too pale and too still, but he was there, he was _alive_ and Dean needed that right now, needed it more than anything.

He had lost his father. They had both lost their father. After sacrificing so much to find him, they had lost him anyway, and that truth ate away at Dean. He had denied his father his lifelong quest and now the man he spent his childhood idolizing would never see it through. He had made his father's life, his father's sacrifices, in vain. If he had known, maybe he would have let Sam pull the trigger. Maybe he would have let John die the way he'd always wanted to.

But John had died a long time ago, Dean realized suddenly, or at least all the parts of John that Dean had truly loved. His father, the proud, loving, family man, had died when Dean was four years old but he had never accepted that, never even realized it until the hunter who had raised him died too. He felt both of their absences suddenly, and knew he would have gladly taken a reprimand for just some piece of his father to cling to.

The weight of grief was crushing.

He mourned the father he'd known before all of this began – back when there was a Mary and no demons and life was simple. The father who had played with him and tickled and teased him. The father whose love was revealed in words and actions, a hundred different times a day. The father who'd smiled and laughed and hugged and had a light in him and around him that had made him perfect in Dean's young eyes.

He mourned the father who'd been a shell of his former self, the father who'd spent nearly all of Dean's life fighting demons – both inside and out. The father who was so consumed by the hunt that his love was shown only through praise for skills learned, for orders followed. The father who had distanced himself from his sons both physically and emotionally, whose energy had been spent on tracking and hunting and killing. The father who had been willing to give anything, to sacrifice everything, for vengeance.

Dean's sobs were quiet, almost silent, but he mourned from the depths of his soul.

His eyes stayed on his brother, watching the cadence of Sam's chest rising and falling, rising and falling.

He'd been wrong. In his grief and tears, he clung to Sam's hand and knew. It could get worse.

He hadn't had a father in 23 years – not since the night he'd lost his mother. It was an irony that had revealed itself with bitter cruelty when he heard his father's praise at the cabin.

Because he knew that those words of praise, of acceptance, were things his father would have never said.

For most of his life, he hadn't had his father, though he had spent his life holding fast to the man in front of him. He'd adjusted, almost from the first day, to the drill sergeant John became. Dean became the son John needed him to be, adapting to whatever task John put before him. His father had been his example and his rudder in a scary and fast-changing world. And now, he was gone.

But Dean still had a brother.

Though Sam had spent his childhood rebelling, Dean could see not only his father's stubbornness in Sam, but everything else Dean had once loved about that man. Sam was their father's legacy, Sam was his legacy. Sam was his life.

He could survive without his father. He could never survive without Sam.

And Sam - what could Sam survive? So much had happened since that night he'd gone to enlist Sam's help in finding their father. And he didn't regret it – he couldn't, since regretting it would mean that he wouldn't have Sam with him now.

But so much had happened.

Hearing that Sam had planned to marry Jess had made him sick to his stomach. Sam had loved her that much. Even more, Sam had been that committed to his new life, the one he let Dean drag him away from.

Worst of all, after all the time they had spent together, Dean realized there was still so much about Sam he didn't know.

How many other hurts had Sam borne silently? Dean knew they rarely talked about any of it – about anything real. He'd tried to broach the subject of Jess when he had seen Sam start to fall for Sarah. But Sam had only let him go so far, and he certainly hadn't been eager to push further. It had been the first, the only time they had talked about it during the year they had been on the road. And though they'd argued repeatedly about their father and their childhood, Dean had never really asked him why he left or what it had been like when he was at college. And Sam had never offered to tell him.

As for Sam's role in Mom and Jess' deaths . . . The demon had made it abundantly clear that he'd been after Sam all along. And though it was the very nature of evil things to lie, Dean knew in his bones that those words had been truth. And he knew how Sam would feel about it. Guilty. Responsible. Ashamed. As though any of it could have been prevented. As though any of it were his fault.

The demon had even gotten in its little digs about Sam's abilities. He'd never talked about those with Dean, either - not since they left Michigan. But Dean knew it bothered Sam that he could control neither the visions nor the telekinesis. "Gifts" Dean wouldn't have wished on anyone were now his brother's burden to bear. And he knew Sam's inability to use them at such a crucial time would prey on him, make him doubt himself even more.

The demon had gotten his digs in about Dean's fears as well. _They don't need you, not like you need them_. Those were the words that haunted him, not the obvious "Dad always liked Sam best" card that the demon had tried to play. Dean had been around John long enough to know that he loved his sons equally, although in different ways.

But not being needed – that was his greatest fear. That in the end, Dad and Sam would move on and he would be left alone, with no one to take care of. His main purpose, his main goal all these years, had been to hold his fragile family together. And if, in the end, they didn't want him to, where did that leave him?

Dean sighed in the aftermath of tears, feeling suddenly old and tired.

Too much. It was all too much. Their family quest had already demanded too many casualties. He didn't know what he'd do if Sam were added to the list.

Dean rolled onto his side, snaking his hand through the bedrails and laying it over Sam's wrist.

"Sammy? Sammy, can you hear me?"

He needed Sam awake so desperately. Needed to hear his voice, needed to talk to him, even if he didn't know yet what he would be able to say.

He held his breath, hoping . . . waiting. But there was only the sound of Sam's heart monitor, steadily beeping.

Dean brought his other hand over, laying it next to the other on Sam's arm.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy. For all of this. You shouldn't have had to . . ."

He paused, clearing his throat.

"Please don't leave me, Sam. You're all I've got left." He lay his head back on the pillow, not letting Sam go.

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The world was fuzzy and he felt disconnected. It was dark, and it took him a minute to realize his eyes were closed. It took him another minute to work them open.

Rays of light assaulted him with surprising ferocity, and he screwed his eyes shut again to keep his head from pounding more than it already did.

He tried to swallow but found his tongue thick. His efforts stuck in his throat. He struggled to open his mouth and speak, but nothing happened.

The darkness was inviting, and he was about to surrender to it again when he heard something.

"Sammy?"

He knew that voice. He knew that voice well.

"Sammy?"

But it sounded funny. Weaker. Worried. _Dean?_

"Come on, Sammy. Wake up for me."

Sam was never good at disobeying Dean's orders, no matter what anyone thought.

He forced his eyes open and the light hurt less this time. He tried to lick his parched lips but his dry tongue offered no solace.

"Easy there," Dean said, and Sam felt something cold and wet slide over his lips and on his tongue. "You with me?"

The moisture loosened his throat and he blinked again, squinting until the scene above him made sense. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me." The relief was clear in Dean's voice.

His mind struggled to make sense of where they were, why they were there. "What . . .happened?"

He could barely make out the sad expression that crossed Dean's face. "Don't you remember?"

Sam tried to remember, letting his mind trace threads of memories backwards. "The demon . . . Dad . . ."

"Yeah. He caught us off-guard. Again." Dean barely kept the bitterness from his voice.

"How...?"

"Do you remember the accident?"

Sam looked blank.

"Got t-boned. Totaled the car."

"Sorry," Sam rasped. "I...was...driving?"

"Yeah, last time I let you do that."

Something registered in Sam's eyes and they widened with sudden fear. "...you...okay?"

Dean reached a hand to Sam's, reassuring his brother. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. A little internal bleeding, but I'm no worse for wear."

Sam didn't need to know how close Dean had come – how bad off he had really been. There would be time for that later.

"You've been out of it for a few days now."

Given how his head felt, that didn't surprise him. Sam let his eyes drift close.

"I was worried, Sammy."

"...never leave you...," he mumbled, the lull of sleep pulling at him. Oblivion was easier than remembering the demon getting away, the demon in his father's face, the demon really had been targeting him, all along . . .

His eyes snapped open. "Dad? Where's Dad?"

"Shh, Sam. Don't worry about it."

But Sam picked up on Dean's avoidance. Adrenaline made him more alert. His voice was still raw but it took less effort to speak now. "Dean? Where is he? What haven't you...told me?"

"Sam..."

"Is Dad . . . Dad is . . ." Sam couldn't bring himself to say it, but he knew. Helpless tears filled his eyes and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

"Sam . . . " But Dean had nothing else to offer. This wound was too fresh. It would always be too fresh. There was nothing that could make it any easier.

The knowledge broke Sam. He closed his eyes and could see his father's face close to his, eyes glowing.

_They got in the way. _Dad got in the way.

"He died because of me . . ."

Sam's broken whisper cut at Dean, and Dean could see the guilt already taking root. "No! It was that damned demon. You hear me, Sam?"

Sam nodded weakly, but didn't open his eyes. He took a shuddering breath, seeming to shrink into himself.

"Sam, listen to me, okay? This is . . . This wasn't your fault. Dad spent his whole life hunting this demon. He knew the risks. He always knew . . ."

But Sam could barely hear Dean. All he could hear was his father's orders, his father's desperate plea of, _You shoot me, Sammy. You do it!_ He could see the bitter disappointment and anger in his father's face, hear it dripping in his voice. They had been so close, his father had come so close to claiming his vengeance. Sam had denied him, and now it was too late.

"I should have shot him."

Sam's quiet admission echoed Dean's own thoughts. If they had known how things were going to turn out, they could have . . .

But if didn't bear thinking about. Especially for Sam. If Sam started to think _he_ should have known, should have had some vision or premonition, it would only make things worse.

They'd done the best they could with what they had. It was what the Winchesters had done all their lives. For whatever mistakes had been made, and for whoever had made them, they had done the best they could. It wasn't always right, it wasn't always good. But most of the time, it had been enough. This time . . .

This time the price had been high.

Dean lay back on his bed, suddenly exhausted. He didn't let Sam's hand go, though, both of them needing the reassurance of knowing the other was there.

"I don't know where we go from here, Sam. I wish I had some answers, but . . ." His voice trailed away.

Sam's hand closed weakly around his brother's. "I know."


End file.
